Peter Hughes: Berlioz (Part 7)

1

heavily trembling on the thrumming tightropethe art is lit & seemingly stilla twitch away from farce on the edge of the credibleprone to misinterpretationthe memory is still in my throatof the Funeral & Triumphal Symphonyto mark ten years since the 1830 Revolution

the remains of those who diedover the Three Dayswould be moved to the new monumentin the Place de la Bastillewe’d crane our necks to look at Libertywith wings outstretchedat the top of the columnmoving with the souls of thedead to heaven

2

I asked as many as I couldto the final rehearsalI knew nothing would be audibleon the day itselfin the windy vastnessof the Place de la Bastillewhere the great crowd stoodas scraps of music flappedabout their heads & disappearedor the march to the square

but the music playedalong the Boulevard Poissonnièresang with great clarity

the band augmentedby the great treesthat are no longer there

3

I wish you could have been with mein Germany it is so not-Paristhe musicians turn up earlythe people love music as musicnot as just another symphony as handbagfashion accessoryI loved Prague deeplyLiszt became breathtakinglydrunk & at two in the morningwas dead set on a duelwith some local drinkerhis noon concert approachedhe moved gingerly from bedat 11.35 towards the piano & played like a god

4

I wrote Faust swaying on trains & boatsrattling along on a stage-coachby gaslight in a shop one nightlost in Bupapestbefore dawn in Prague& in every corner of ParisI staked all I had ontwo performancesat the Opéra-Comique& no-one camego to RussiaI am deeply movedwhen I rememberhow many peoplehelped mepay my debts

5

I left Paris in deep snowon Valentine's Day 1847& for a fortnightrocked hissing through snowto St. Petersburgoccasionally smiling at the prophecy of Balzacthe night before I leftyou'll returna wealthy manBalzac couldn't look out of a windowwithout seeing earningsoccasionally

6

once past the Russian frontierthe very air was tortureI was dragged swaying throughdeep frozen ruts that kicked my teeth around my headin a frozen box on runnersbattered travel-sickfrost-bitten to the icy edge of deathin a day-nightmare I sawsoldiers crossing this terrainwithout shoes or suppliesdead men walkingtowards another freezing nightwhat does it cost to dieoccasionally

7

when I saw crowsfall on the horses’ droppingsfor food & warmthI wondered why they stayedinstead of flying southone hour into thawing out my head in a hotel rooman invitation came to a glittering short-term futurewhile back in Francemen & women did everything that men & women dosome die fast some die slow

8

after six months of disgusting suffering I lost my sister Nancishe died of breast cancermy sister Adèle stayed with her& almost died herself from the tearing pain of watchingI grind my teeth at the crueltyof her prolonged incurableGodless torture when a simpleanaesthetic could have swallowed her pain for goodshe died in early Maymy wife died with less paina few came to the funerala quarter of a century earlierwhen she was one of the star of Paristhe city would have ground to a haltto ease her to the grave

9

millions of details of scintillatingsatisfactions & successesmostly in Germanyadd up to nothing in my cupboardI smell failure even in the mirroras you go downhill the world does toothe evidence is overwhelmingas I stumble through the outskirtsof town even when sat in the centreI know my name & art will not survive